Amortentia

by olivieblake

Will they or won't they? Oh, they will. Fluff for when you need it. Romantic short stories, multiple pairings, mostly Dramione but some by request. Includes Bachelorette, Reunion, and The Real World: Hogwarts series.

171. Never-Blink

Never-Blink

Pairing: Parkweasel (Pansy Parkinson x Percy Weasley)

Universe: muggle AU, Ride or Die-verse, post-epilogue

Rating: M

Summary: Pansy Parkinson got the hell out of Diagon immediately after her high school graduation, moving to Los Angeles to make it as a pop star without looking back—not even to handle the aftermath of her father's death. But when she mysteriously returns to Diagon in the wake of a celebrity trial, no amount of difficulty on Pansy's part will keep Percy Weasley from finally getting the Parkinson file off his desk.

A note: you do not have to have read Ride or Die in order to understand what's going on in this one-shot; it would help to understand the world, but the story itself can stand alone. All I ask is that you please don't ask me to expand this into a dramione, because I have already done that! Find all 180k of it in my profile—and yes, I am saying this because I did indeed get that exact request after Black Jeans and Daphne Blue (ch. 133). Also, light TW, this story includes a discussion about a Weinstein-esque trial but NO actual depictions or descriptions on the page. Skip the dinner scene if their conversation makes you uncomfortable. Okay, enjoy!

---

"Well," said Theo Nott, drumming his fingers on the table. "Gotta say, I thought you were gone for good, Parkinson."

"So did I." She walked slowly around the room, eyeing the frames on the walls. "So you're head honcho now, huh Nott? Didn't see that coming."

"It seems Draco has a taste for more conventional politics," Theo supplied in explanation, "but you know that was never my style. Too niche," he clarified facetiously, gesturing to where he sat in his black leather cut. He'd gotten a proper haircut at some point since high school; presumably more than just the one, though there was no way of confirming. Altogether he looked less like he'd stumbled in off the street than Pansy could remember from their anarchical teen years. "My appeal is somewhat less universal."

Pansy paused to arch a brow over her shoulder. "But every cult needs a leader, right?"

"Yep." He leaned back in his chair, head lolling against it with a languid smile. "That's the one."

Pansy continued her perusal of the photographs, falling still in front of a picture of her father.

"Left him on the wall?" she murmured.

"Of course. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater."

"Except for Riddle?"

"Traitors," Theo said, "are something different."

She nodded, still looking at the picture. Her father stood beside Theo's father, posing next to their bikes like club bouncers on Sunset. Irreverent thugs.

Her heart ached a little.

"Parkinson," Theo called from behind her. "Take your coat off and stay awhile."

"Nah, I won't be here long." Having run out of pictures to peruse, she turned to face him where he sat. "I just came to ask you something."

"Yeah? Ask." Theo beckoned her with his chin, which was split down the center with a scar. She wondered if she had been there to see him earn it and then dismissed the thought. Most likely not. She'd missed a lot in the decade or so she'd been away.

"You guys still kill people?" she ventured tangentially.

"Only on the second Thursday of every month," Theo drawled, lacing his hands behind his head. "But we'll Tonya Harding someone if they've really got it coming."

"Break a kneecap, you mean?"

"No, win the Nationals in figure skating," said Theo, before kicking his legs out and asking, "Who've you got it in for, Pans?"

"No one." She stepped towards him, distancing herself from the picture of her father. "Nothing. Just wondering what else might've changed around here, that's all."

"You certainly have," Theo commented blandly.

She smiled at him. Not a blinding one, well-rehearsed. A felt cute, might delete later one. She generally tried to mix it up on her Instagram feed, never wanting to appear too out of touch. People liked to see a little insecurity in their icons.

"Not as much as you'd think," she told him, and he smiled back, all teeth.

---

She couldn't remember what the salon had been before, but her instincts told her it had been a salon then, too. From the outside it was pristine, almost too perfect, like a Drybar in Beverly Hills, except it was flanked by the flagging brick of two Main Street staples—the used bookstore and the only other cafe in town besides the Leaky—instead of a minimalist boutique or whatever artisan baked goods were considered fashionable these days.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside, catching sight of Daphne from afar. She was chatting with someone in medical scrubs who looked up, pausing, which then prompted Daphne to look up, too.

Daphne looked the same. Sweeter without the low-lows, definitely, and considerably less likely to offer up a joint from her backpack, but generally the same.

"Pansy," Daphne registered without thinking, and then blinked. "Holy shit, Pans, is that you?"

The other woman, exceedingly small and with hair pulled uncomplicatedly back from her face, seemed to frown with confusion when Pansy stepped forward in greeting, accepting Daphne's warm embrace.

"Daph," said Pansy, before glancing at the bemused woman in scrubs. "And you are…?"

"Oh gosh, sorry, I'm Hermione," the woman supplied, shaking herself of her momentary daze, "I just—" A pause. "Aren't you…?"

"No, I just look like her." Pansy flashed the woman, Hermione, a paparazzi smile. "Get it all the time."

"Oh, right," said Hermione, offering up a faint, half-convinced laugh when Daphne mercilessly cut in.

"Oh Jesus, she's joking—Pansy," Daphne sighed, rolling her eyes, "this is Hermione, Draco's wife. Dr. Granger," she purred, applying an emphatic layer of formality obviously intended to make Hermione groan, "this is Pansy Parkinson. An old friend."

"Yeah, wow, it's so surreal to meet you," offered Hermione along with her hand, looking moderately recovered from her initial stumbling. "I mean with all the news coverage and stuff, I feel like I just saw your name this morning—"

"Wife," Pansy echoed with an arched brow at Daphne, as Hermione made a dismissive little gesture of yeah, sure, probably. "My goodness, it's every girl's dream to marry a doctor, isn't it? How impressive for Draco to have managed it."

"Oh, it's—" Again, Hermione waved her away with a flushed look of don't be silly. "Nothing."

"I think you and I both know it's not nothing," remarked Pansy, before turning back to Daphne. "And you, Little Miss Entrepreneur, I hear you have a baby now?"

"Well, it just seemed like less work than a medical career," Daphne replied.

Pansy smiled.

"I guess I never made the connection you were actually from here," Hermione commented, still evidently distracted by Pansy's appearance. "I mean, Draco mentioned it once when your song came on the radio, but I honestly thought he was joking—"

"He was a terrible prom date," said Pansy. "Got in a fight that night at the Leaky. Got blood on my dress, too," she added with a roll of her eyes.

"How do you know it wasn't your blood?" asked Daphne wickedly. "I seem to recall you putting Ginny Weasley's nose out of commission that night, Miss Parkinson."

Pansy smiled thinly as Hermione's eyes widened.

"Oh Daph, you know I don't bleed," she said. "I just sparkle."

---

"Miss Parkinson. Rumor has it you're in town? Much as I've adored our little year-long game of phone tag, I'm going to have to insist this time: You're it. Your father's estate papers need to be taken care of. The deed to the house is still in my possession. Your inheritance, paltry as it is compared to whatever else you may have in your 401k, is currently awaiting your attention. While I appreciate we're all being blessed with the rare presence of our own almighty pop star and former Prom Queen, I hope it's not too terribly much to ask that you arrange to come by my office and sign a few papers. Twenty minutes and you'll be on your merry way."

---

"You look well," said Pansy conclusively. "Very well."

Susan gave her a glowy, suburban sort of look.

"Turns out you really can sweat out a coke problem if you do enough pilates," she said.

Pansy chuckled, uncrossing her legs and rising to her feet.

"Thanks for this," she said, picking up the packet Susan's husband Cormac had left for her. "And for the lemonade, too. Tell McLaggen I'll put the house on the market as soon as I get everything taken care of with the lawyer."

"Sure," said Susan, walking her to the door. "Oh, but Pans," she said, cautiously clearing her throat, "what brings you back? I mean… I guess we all expected to see you at the, you know. The funeral."

"Right, yeah," Pansy said, willfully expressionless. "I know. But I was in Japan at the time and couldn't get back."

"Right, sure, of course," offered Susan hastily. "But then with your mom gone and everything—"

"Yeah, I know. I just couldn't get away."

"—Oh of course, and I mean the whole thing was like, so weird, right?" she sighed, evidently attempting to be sympathetic. "Like, all that and then your tour finishes, then you announce another album and boom, you're randomly in the news for jury duty—like, what the hell, right? I mean I guess even pop stars have a civic duty or whatever, but still—"

"Sooz, babe, I'm so sorry, I have to run," said Pansy, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. "Coffee soon? Bagels?"

"Yeah, sure, anytime!"

"Perfect," said Pansy, sliding her sunglasses on her face with the private assurance that neither of them would ever dream of following up. "See you soon."

---

"All in favor?"

"Aye," said Percy, along with the rest of the planning commission.

"Excellent. Meeting adjourned."

There was a snap from one of the Creevey brothers' cameras and then, blessedly, freedom. Percy grabbed a cup of takeaway coffee from the Leaky and hurried out the door, bypassing the store-bought cookies with the stale, cake-like consistency and thick pink frosting. He'd had enough of those to last a lifetime, though evidently the rest of the commission disagreed.

"Weasley, if we could just get—"

"Yeah, email me," said Percy over his shoulder. "I've got a meeting."

"What, now?"

"Yes, now," Percy confirmed, shoving open the City Hall doors and hurrying up the street to his office.

He did not have a meeting.

He did, however, have other places to be, with nearly any place containing far more pressing work than whatever awaited him over stale cookies in the council chambers. Small town politics were and forever would be the same, as far as Percy was concerned. Perhaps things were a bit more exciting at the city council meetings, but the planning commission… there were only so many discussions he could have about the dangerous effects of back pain caused by speed bumps.

(Bumps were the narrow ones. 'Humps' were broader, more expensive, and generally preferred. Roundabouts were much too European for Diagon. But think of the children! Drive like your kids live here, et cetera et cetera. Half the time it took four months of argument just to produce a flashing sign.)

He had wanted to be a prosecutor, attracted by the excitement of criminal law, until his father had gotten beaten up by the Death Eaters, which was too much excitement. Percy had been in college at the time, worriedly sitting by his phone and waiting for news from his mother so intently (she'd forgotten to call and report back post-surgery, having been occupied by one of his more pressing siblings) that he nearly slept through his finals. Then he'd wanted to be a defense attorney, until he realized his clients would be the same people who'd beaten his father half to death.

When Arthur Weasley told him to stick to contracts, Percy listened. He focused on transactional law, finding he had a talent for accountancy, real estate, and wills, all of which were complicated. So complicated, in fact, that friends of his mother began calling him the moment he passed the bar, asking if he wouldn't mind helping with this or that. So complicated that he'd set up a temporary office in his parents' house, thinking he'd help for a few months before finding employment at a firm somewhere in San Francisco or Los Angeles, but had instead been pushed to open an office on Main Street when the house became too cramped and the billable hours didn't stop. So complicated that he didn't need business cards, just word of mouth, because all the Diagon housewives would say to each other, "Give Molly's boy a call, he'll help you," and now here he was, right where he'd started, except he was in his second term as planning commissioner and scheduled to speak at his high school's career day next week.

Bill was somewhere in Egypt. Charlie was in Romania or something, though he was coming home for a day or so like he usually did every couple of years before jetting off again. Even Fred and George split their time between their shop downtown and New York City to negotiate the franchising of their products. (They'd had Percy look over the contracts.) Ron was still in Diagon for now, but who knew where Padma's cardiology career would ultimately take them. Ginny had gotten the hell out of Dodge after college and though her absence seemed to plague their mother most intently, Percy hadn't blamed her. There wasn't a lot left here to see.

Which wasn't to say he didn't like living in Diagon. It kept him busy, at least, and it had seen a lot of improvements since the Death Eaters' leadership had changed hands. Retail was doing well. Downtown, where he operated his legal business, was pleasantly gentrifying. He slid up the narrow stairwell between two Main Street storefronts and took the usual sharp right, pushing open the door to his second-story office. It was unlocked because he had only been gone for an hour, and Diagon generally wasn't the sort of place he had to worry about things being stolen unless he'd offended a Death Eater, which he hadn't.

But one was sitting on the couch that purported to be a waiting room anyway.

"Weasley," said Pansy Parkinson, rising to her feet. "You rang?"

She was wearing a pair of skintight leggings, a loose white tank top, a long blazer. Her hair was long and thick, glamorous and effortless at the same time.

"Closed," Percy said without a second glance, waltzing into his office and referencing the sign on the door. The coffee in his hand was cold, but he drank it anyway. "I asked you to schedule a meeting with me, not surprise me after hours."

"Well, I was in the neighborhood," said Pansy, evidently unfazed by his tone. "I'm hoping to have this taken care of tonight."

"Hope is a dangerous thing for anyone to have, Miss Parkinson," Percy called over his shoulder, loosening his tie and tossing it aside.

It was typical of her not to think much of his time; not only because she was some sort of famous pop singer now—someone who made the news just for walking into a courthouse, which Percy did several times a week—but because she was the daughter of a Death Eater. Limitless. Condescending. They thought they ran this town, and just because they were generally correct about that didn't make it more palatable. It was only with severe misgivings that Percy had backed Draco Malfoy in the most recent City Council election; he wouldn't have if not for finding Cormac McLaggen, Malfoy's opponent, to be an absolute imbecile.

Pansy appeared in the door frame, leaning against it.

"Dark," she commented.

He glanced up. "I need time to look over your file to make sure I have everything pulled for you to sign. I'd like to have this over with in one sitting."

"Jesus," remarked Pansy. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

Percy, irritated, woke his computer with a tap on the return key. "No, Miss Parkinson, I have not."

"Yikes." She was still standing there, testing him.

"Come back in the morning," he suggested. "I open at nine a.m."

"Can you do earlier? I'm a morning person," she said.

"Great," he replied. "Then you won't be late."

She made a sound like a snort of disbelief, and he looked up.

"I have things to attend to," he informed her. "The world does not simply stop because you've asked it to."

Her expression hardened, going cold.

"I know that," she said.

Then she turned on her heel, and Percy remembered that she was here to sort through the papers of her father's death, and if he had not felt that a year was ample time for her to deal with it, he might have felt sorry for how he'd acted, a little bit, maybe—but he did feel she'd dragged her feet more than strictly necessary, so instead he pulled up the bankruptcy papers for one of his other clients and got to work with another sip of cold coffee, hoping to make it home before ten.

---

Pansy didn't make her nine o'clock appointment.

Instead she sat in her father's living room and watched his television, flipping through channels. She'd made sure her assistant continued to pay the cable bills, electric, water, gas. Did she want to find a tenant for the house? No, she didn't. Did she want to sell it? Yeah, sure, eventually, but who knew what sort of state it was in. Did she want someone to go look at it? No of course not, there were personal possessions in there, she would do it herself eventually. Did she want someone to buy plane tickets? Please stop pestering her, she had a tour to prepare for. An album to record. Her first Vogue shoot. It was tax season. Holiday season. Boyfriend season. Breakup season. Allergy season.

She flipped through channels, pausing only briefly.

"—make fetch happen, it's not going to happen—"

"—DOW at an all-time high—"

"—WE WERE ON A BREAK—"

"—expected to begin this morning here in Los Angeles. The case against Hollywood producer Ludo Bagman has garnered unprecedented media attention in recent weeks, owing in large part to the testimony of singer Pansy Parkinson during jury selection proceedings."

Pansy paused her finger expectantly on the channel-up button.

"Miss Parkinson, seen here exiting the Los Angeles County Courthouse, was ultimately dismissed from jury selection despite her professed willingness to serve and be impartial. After Bagman's team of lawyers questioned her relationship with one of the witnesses, an alleged victim in what may very well be the most controversial sexual assault investigation of the dec-"

"—will be a blustery fifty-two degrees this morning with temperatures reaching an average high of sixty-five mid-afternoon—"

Pansy shut the television off and rose to her feet, contemplating how to spend the rest of her morning. Possibly she could pack up the rest of her father's things, though most of it seemed to have already been picked apart, presumably by her AWOL mother or one of the other Death Eaters. Theo had promised (via her assistant) to have someone pick up the majority of the things Pansy had wanted removed, like the mattress her father had died on, and anything of value, like the grandfather clock that was now being sold in one of the thrift shops on Main Street. Theo was at least very reliable, which Pansy supposed he always had been. She just hadn't stayed long enough in Diagon to find out for herself what he'd grown up to be.

She slid a glance listlessly outside, to the garage where her father kept his bikes. She'd told Theo to get rid of anything that wasn't working, but he'd sent back (again, via her assistant) that all of her father's bikes were, in fact, in near-perfect order. Granted, that was just shy of a year ago. Probably most of them could use some tuning up.

Pansy stretched to her feet, swapping her yoga pants for a pair of jeans.

Time to go fix some bikes.

---

Of course she hadn't shown up. He wasn't even surprised when she wasn't there at nine, and certainly not when the clock struck ten without her present. He had a feeling she'd wanted him to suffer for letting her proffered window of amiability lapse, and while he probably should have seen that coming, it also intensely annoyed him.

At noon, having glanced at the Parkinson file too many times to count, Percy finally rose to his feet, scribbling a note that he'd be out of the office for lunch before climbing into his Prius, heading first to the nicest inn on Main Street. No, no check-ins the previous day, the front desk said. He drove to the Manor, stepping inside just far enough to ask if Theo Nott had any idea where Pansy Parkinson was. The response—Nott wasn't there, leaving him to speak with Mulciber, the garage manager—was a menacing, Why, who was lookin' for her? Never mind. He tried Daphne Greengrass' salon, knowing they'd been friends half a lifetime ago. No, she hadn't seen her, not since yesterday. Okay, great. Wonderful. Perfect.

The Parkinson house was his seventh stop. He hadn't sincerely thought that after a year of zealously avoiding anything to do with her father's death, Pansy might have chosen to return there, of all places—to the house she refused to sell or do anything with aside from paying the property taxes, which she'd done only after Percy had spoken impatiently with both her voicemail and her assistant thirty separate times—but he paused when he heard the sound of an engine roaring to life from the garage. He slid his messenger bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of his car, heading up the driveway.

"Miss Parkinson," he called over the sound of a Harley, or what he assumed was a Harley. He was never much into motorsports. All very ecologically unsound, in his view, not to mention inescapable deathtraps.

She glanced up at him, distracted, and returned her attention immediately to the bike, as if he'd interrupted her mid-thought. She was wearing a pair of jeans, hair tied back in a loose braid down her back. No makeup, but she had the sort of skin millions of dollars in album sales could probably buy, and therefore didn't need it. She could probably also afford the trainer that got her that body, those legs. She had two black-and-white swallows circling each other tattooed on the outside of her wrist. They had focused on it for her Vogue cover, leaving only her dark eyes visible, both of them swiped with thick eyeliner. She had looked like a goth and haunted poet instead of what she actually was: the daughter of a thug and an arms dealer who'd grown up in a small town, exactly the same way he had.

"Miss Parkinson," he said again, lifting the file for her to see. "We have an appointment."

"So you won't meet before or after hours, but you'll do house calls," she replied without looking up, revving the engine again. He doubted there was any use for it except to drown out his response, though he didn't make one. She glanced up, adding snidely, "You should put that on your business card."

Percy famously did not lose his temper. It unnerved people, especially other lawyers, though it wasn't any sort of skill. He simply had an unflappable quality that was the result of him being the middle of seven siblings. There was no point getting angry. Someone older would only shove him, someone younger would inevitably prank him, and his sister would flip him off and roll her eyes before walking away, indifferent. Getting angry had never served him well.

"Miss Parkinson," he said again. "If you would please just—"

But he was forced to cut himself off when she suddenly tossed him a helmet, retreating to the garage.

"Put it on," she called over her shoulder.

He sighed heavily, glancing down at it. "Miss Parkinson, I really do not have time t-"

"Mm, yeah, I know," she replied, tugging on an oversized leather jacket marked with the Death Eater symbol that must have belonged to her father. She put on her own helmet, beckoning to him. "Get on," she said, patting the seat of the motorcycle.

Percy inhaled once, then exhaled.

"Miss Parkinson, I really must insist—"

"I need groceries," she said. "Forgot to have my assistant stock the fridge before I got here. I mean, granted, I'm not going to be here long, but I prefer my meals home-cooked. Easier to get lean proteins that way. Fresh produce."

She beckoned him again. He understood that he was being toyed with.

"You only have to sign the papers," he reminded her. "We just have to talk for a few minutes, and then—"

She slid on a pair of aviators. "We can do it after I get groceries."

No point fighting her, he thought, grudgingly resigned. She clearly wanted him to resist.

"Very well," Percy said tightly, "but if you insist, I imagine a vehicle would be easier. My car is right there," he pointed out, gesturing over his shoulder, "and I'd be happy t-"

"Yeah, I'm not getting in your car," she told him, throwing one leg over the bike. "How do I know you're not a serial killer?"

"I suppose it's a risk you'll have to take," he said, "though again, I'm happy to talk right here, if you'd like. There's no need t-"

She revved the engine again, drowning him out.

"Get on the bike, Mr Weasley," she said mockingly, "or we can reschedule. Say March thirty-second, 2049?"

Inhale. Exhale.

Percy slid the file back into his bag, walking over to the bike. He tucked the helmet under one arm and paused to roll up the sleeves on his dress shirt, starting with the left.

"You know, it's ironic," he said, finishing his right sleeve and then securing the helmet on his head with pointed deliberation, "I don't actually have a will. If I die on this bike, someone's going to have to handle quite a lot of inconvenient paperwork."

She fixed him with a steady glance. "You think I don't know how to ride a bike?"

He was unfortunately quite certain that she did, in fact, know how. All evidence pointed to it. She had anarchy in her blood, chaos in her genes. She was an agent of disaster, the inheritress to generations of lawlessness, who had somehow channeled it all into saccharine sweetness; wistful songs about broken hearts.

He climbed on behind her, pausing to adjust his bag before setting both hands on her hips. The hourglass of her waist seemed fragile, even if he knew perfectly well she was anything but.

The moment he touched her he saw the blades of her shoulders tensing and he realized that perhaps she had miscalculated, not him; she hadn't really expected him to do it. Inwardly he smiled to himself, securing his thighs around hers, wrapping his arms firmly around her. The inhale when he brushed her ribs was sharp.

"Don't fall off," she said.

Then she took off with a jolt down the driveway, taking the first hard right.

---

She leaned into every corner just because. Just fucking because. Because he clearly thought he had some idea who she was, what she was like, what she'd say no to. Because he was calling her bluff, but she wasn't fucking bluffing.

His arms went perilously tight around her and savagely, she fought a laugh.

He hadn't looked as ridiculous as she'd expected him to when he put on that helmet. She'd suffered the abject curse of knowing a man always looked better when he rolled up his sleeves, the little flex of forearm serving to remind her inconveniently of masculinity and primordial things. Primal things.

God, she wished she could give up on men. It wasn't even entirely out of the question. She wasn't hopelessly heterosexual, like some women; the option to ignore her attraction to dick was often easy to indulge. She'd had a little fling with a Victoria's Secret model last year (secret, of course, though they'd looked good together on their little Melrose jaunts) and Pansy had thought she could do it, potentially. Quit men altogether and focus her emotional efforts on dating women.

But Percy was right about hope, unfortunately. It was a dangerous thing for anyone to have.

Luckily nothing in Diagon was very far away, and Pansy pulled up to the parking lot of the grocery store within a matter of five or so minutes. He was obviously eager to get off the bike, pulling away instantly, and she grudgingly lamented the loss of him against her back. His shoulders and chest were broad, and he smelled fucking fantastic. Freshly laundered, freshly showered. Pheromones were such a curse, and worse was the rise of hipsterism in Hollywood. Now it was unexceptional for men to look like nerds; even considered attractive. Percy Weasley was built like a Tom Ford model, all skinny ties and dress shirts and cheekbones holding up glasses that framed his blue eyes. If she took him to a party in Hollywood, people would probably ask which Ian McEwan adaptation they knew him from.

Pansy's tastes, fortunately, were more Tarantino. The Timothée Chalamets of the world could have their moment if they wanted. She liked boys with big guns.

"Where are you planning to put the groceries?"

She blinked, having forgotten he was capable of speech. "What?"

"The groceries," said Percy, removing the helmet. His hair was a mess. He rifled a hand through it carelessly and she thought, Don't. Please, don't. "Did you bring a bag?"

She ignored him, sitting her helmet on the bike and walking into the grocery store.

He followed, undeterred.

"What brought you back?" he asked her. "You never said why you were here."

She plucked a cantaloupe from a crate near the door, sniffing it for ripeness. "My father died, Weasley. Pretty sure you're aware of that."

"A year is a long time to put off this sort of thing."

"Well I'm here now, aren't I?" She set the melon down, shifting over to the apples. A pity avocados weren't currently in season. "Better late than never."

"I just find it odd," remarked Percy.

"I'm busy. The tour, my album—"

"The trial," he said.

She picked up a peach, staring at it.

"You know, most people will do absolutely anything to get out of jury duty," he commented. "Especially someone like you, who doesn't even have the time to attend her father's funeral."

She set the peach down too hard to look at him, surely bruising it on impact. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She only realized he was baiting her into acknowledging him until after a little smirk of satisfaction flitted across his lips.

"Nothing," he said.

He reached for his bag and she gritted her teeth.

"I told you, I'm buying groceries right now—"

"Yes, and we can talk about your father's debts and assets while you test every peach in the store, Miss Parkinson. Take your time."

He was infuriating.

"I came to your office," she reminded him. "I was ready to go through this then."

"I'm aware, but—"

"Have you ever had to deal with a parent dying?" she asked him blisteringly.

"No." His tone was clipped, formal. "However, I did once sit beside my father's hospital bed for several days waiting to see if he would live. I believe you may recall that event? Your father was there, in fact," he informed her, leaving the sentence flatly between them. "I'm sure you were very concerned he might be arrested but, of course, he was not."

"So that's what this is." Pansy curled a fist, wanting to punch him, only she noticed that other people had started to do the double-takes; the little is that really her? look that Dr Draco's Wife had given her the previous day. "You want to antagonize me over an old blood feud or something? I have no control over what my father did to yours."

"I am simply not in the mood to be antagonized, Miss Parkinson," said Percy blandly. "Sign the papers. Sell the house if you want, I don't care. Just put this behind you and move on."

He had the file in his hand.

She looked at it, looked at his face, at those blue eyes, and shut down.

Then she walked out of the store and got back on the bike, peeling out of the parking lot before checking to see if he had followed.

---

"You really shouldn't be haranguing her like that," said one of his mother's friends, who—just his luck—happened to be in the store in time to see Pansy walk out. "It's tragic what happened. Not everyone handles death well."

"Evidently some people do not handle it at all," remarked Percy, tucking the file back into his bag for the second time that day. "How wonderful that she can be so privileged."

He didn't bother waiting for a response, instead deciding to walk back to his office. He had already spent two hours on this; he wouldn't allow any further time to be wasted. He had other clients, countless responsibilities. At least twelve emails from the planning commission were currently waiting to be answered. His stomach growled, and at the last second he bought a packaged salad and a cup of coffee, making his way up the stairs to his office.

He would have to pick up his car eventually. Unfortunate. He pinched the bridge of his nose, resigning himself to calling his brother.

"Ron. Sorry to bother you. Can I get a lift from my office, please?"

"A lift? Why? Where?"

"I left my car somewhere. At a client's house."

"What?"

"Ronald, please," Percy exhaled at a mutter. "I do not enjoy asking you for favors."

"Alright, Jesus, no need to shit your pants, Perce. I'm off tonight anyway. Be there in five."

More like ten minutes, as Ron never got anywhere in five. Percy stood outside anyway, waiting a mostly-inoffensive fifteen, and then stepped into Ron's car without a word.

"Where to?" said Ron.

Percy gave him the address.

"Hang on, isn't that—"

"Just drive, please," said Percy, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes, exhaling.

"Well, you're in a lovely mood," Ron remarked, pulling back into the street with a hasty glance over his shoulder.

"Signal, Ron, aren't you a policeman?"

"Perce, can you kindly shut up? Thanks."

They drove in silence the rest of the way, Ron pulling up beside Percy's Prius.

"Hey," he said, "everything okay? Like, really."

Ron was obviously trying to be friendly, which was a rarity. They tended to avoid each other, not out of active dislike, but as a result of having nothing to discuss. They had once attended some sort of football match together when no one else was available at Ron's disposal; both had sorely regretted it, refusing to speak of it afterwards.

"I'm fine," said Percy, opening the passenger door and stepping out of it. "It's been a long day."

Ron shrugged. "Alright," he said. "See you at Mum and Dad's tomorrow," he added as an afterthought, waving before driving off.

The garage was closed. Percy contemplated simply getting into his car and driving off, but the light in the living room was on.

He sighed, heading for the front door, and knocked twice.

He waited thirty seconds, meticulously counting, and was about to turn away when the door finally opened, revealing Pansy in the frame. She was no longer in the blazer or the jeans. She had showered, her hair was wet, her skin was dewy and smelling like jasmine. She wore a cropped t-shirt, braless. Her torso was long, her navel winking up at him above the line of her leggings. The house smelled like garlic and jalapenos, so presumably she had managed to get groceries after all.

"The office is closed," she said, an obvious mockery of him. "I don't work after hours."

"I didn't mean to upset you," he told her. "You were testing my patience. I reacted badly."

She frowned at him, eyes narrowing for a moment.

"Understood," she said. "And you're right. I was being difficult."

He waited for an apology, given that she had abandoned him in a grocery store and therefore derailed the majority of his afternoon, but when it appeared he wouldn't get one, he nodded his head and turned away.

"Hey," she called after him. "Hungry?"

Inconveniently, his stomach rumbled. He had worked late to make up for missing two hours and had eaten nothing but the packaged salad.

He turned towards her.

"I made too much," she offered in apparent explanation.

He nodded. "Cooking for one can be difficult."

"Right." She stepped to the side, gesturing him inside. "Oh," she added as an afterthought, pausing him just before he stepped over the threshold, "but I'm not signing anything. And if you mention my father, you're gone."

He turned his head, glancing down at her. The hand she'd used to stop him rested on his stomach, safely above his belt and below his chest.

"Fine," he said.

She released him and he walked inside.

---

They had been eating in silence for nearly fifteen entire minutes when he wiped his mouth with a napkin, asking impassively, "Why did you want to be on that jury?"

She paused, setting her fork beside her plate in irritation.

"I'm not asking about your father," he pointed out.

"I obviously should have been more specific," she muttered.

"Yes, but you weren't, and legally speaking you should clarify the terms of a contract before offer and acceptance."

He seemed to be teasing her. Not cruelly. Just… conversationally.

"L.A. is a zoo right now," she said. "Everyone made a big deal of the trial."

"Partially due to you," he commented.

She glanced up sharply, but again, he didn't seem to be speaking maliciously.

"Yes," she confirmed, her reply carefully crisp and expressionless. "I guess people made a big deal of my involvement."

She thought that would be the end of it, but of course it wasn't.

"For what it's worth, I'd have liked to see you on that jury," Percy remarked. "But I knew the defense would never allow it. A young woman in the music industry? You must have seen versions of Bagman a thousand times over. What is he, a producer?"

She picked up her fork. "Yes."

"Amazing how some people think they're untouchable." He gently stabbed a piece of broccolini and raised it to his mouth.

Pansy, meanwhile, simply stared at her dinner, suddenly losing her appetite.

"I've seen lots of versions of him," she said. "But not because I'm famous. Not because I'm a singer."

Percy paused his chewing. After a moment, he swallowed carefully.

"My father wasn't a good guy," Pansy said. "I know that. I can see why you don't have a lot of sympathy for me. I can see why you don't miss him, why you think it doesn't matter to me that he's gone. But when I was—"

She broke off.

Percy set his fork down, saying nothing.

"You probably don't know this about me but I was in the high school wind ensemble," Pansy said, the words suddenly pouring out of her uninvited. "I was first chair, actually. Flute and piccolo. Tried it out in fifth grade and fell in love with music. Happened to be good at it, too."

"You're right," Percy said, "I didn't know that."

He was looking at her attentively, but not forcefully. He was listening, but he wasn't pressuring her to go on.

"The band teacher in high school, I don't know if you remember him—"

"Karkaroff."

"Yeah, him." She cleared her throat. "He… Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing happened," she said quickly. "I mean, nothing like… nothing like the trial. Nothing like Bagman. But I tried to tell another teacher and they didn't do anything. I tried to tell them but they didn't listen, said it was in my head or told me to stop wearing… I don't know. The point is I quit," she said flatly. "I just came home one day and told my dad I quit. He yelled at me, said he'd wasted money buying all the stuff I needed, my flute and all that. I just took it. He wouldn't stop pestering me about it, said if I didn't like hard work then I wouldn't like life. But I guess eventually he remembered that I didn't mind practicing; I used to do it every day. He used to yell at me to stop, actually. 'That's enough, it's been an hour, shut up,' that kind of thing. He and my mom were always either yelling at each other or at me."

She swallowed thickly, pushing the stir-fry around on her plate.

"But then I quit band and stopped practicing and I stopped talking and started sleeping all the time and my dad finally pieced together that something was wrong. So one day he comes home, throws my flute at me, says he took care of it and that I better not forget whose daughter I was ever again. Scared me shitless." Pause. "The next day I went to school and found out Karkaroff was in the hospital. Punctured lung. Broken ribs. Broken leg. Someone," she said, "had put the fear of God in him, and he never taught again."

She rose to her feet, suddenly desperate for motion. "Wine?"

Percy nodded. "Sure."

"Red or white?"

"Whatever you'd like."

She slid into the kitchen, poured them both a glass, and returned, setting his beside his plate.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She resumed occupancy of her chair, taking a seat.

"Ludo Bagman," she said eventually, "did far worse to those women than anyone's ever done to me. But if he doesn't get a guilty verdict—"

She stopped.

Took another sip of wine.

"After I got dismissed from the Bagman trial I had this shitty, paralyzing thought: I want my dad." She cleared her throat, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass. "I just wanted my dad to fix it, but then I realized he can't. He'll never fix anything for me ever again. Which I've known for an entire year," she admitted, "and presumably you think I don't care about him, and that that's why I haven't come home or something. And yeah, you're half-right, sometimes I hate him, I'll admit that. But then I miss him. And the truth is I couldn't do it, couldn't face all those things. Not all at once," she said.

She took another sip. Percy raised his glass, taking one as well.

"For what it's worth, the evidence against Bagman is astounding," he commented, pointedly not mentioning her father. She had a feeling that because he had already promised not to, he wouldn't, even if Pansy had broken her own rule. "I heard there were over a hundred witnesses."

"Yeah, I know."

"Evidence of harrowing complicity in the industry, certainly, but at least it's evidence."

"I know."

"And I know I can't promise anything about the trial. I wouldn't," Percy corrected himself. "I know the justice system has failed before. Will fail again, inevitably." He took another sip, and Pansy stared at her glass. "But I will say that the damage to Bagman's reputation has been considerable. That won't be easily undone."

"Yes," Pansy said restlessly, "but doesn't it seem unfair that men like him can take our passion, the things we love—they can take our lives and our bodies and our self-respect like it's something they're owed—and all we can take in return are their reputations?"

Silence.

"Forget the trial," Pansy muttered bitterly. "I wish I could break his ribs."

When she looked up, Percy was… smiling.

"Your sense of reprisal is sensational," he said. "Compelling."

She rolled her eyes, lifting her glass to her lips.

"And to think you tried to swear that you could be impartial," Percy murmured, amused.

"I could be impartial," Pansy insisted. "But if the facts are there, what am I supposed to do? Seems pretty straightforward to me."

She shrugged, and Percy's smile broadened.

She had the distinct feeling he was laughing, albeit quietly. Soundlessly.

"I'm assuming you never mentioned anything about Karkaroff in your Vogue interview," he said, and Pansy shook her head. No, admitting her father had nearly killed a man wasn't exactly something she wanted people to know about. She certainly didn't need to incite public speculation as to anyone her father had actually killed.

"Did you continue in band after the, ah," Percy began, and determined, "Warning shots from your father?"

"Yes." She nodded. "And then I moved to L.A. as soon as I graduated. I worked as a waitress, then a bartender, til I got my shot. I recorded demos, YouTube videos, you name it. Performed on the Santa Monica Promenade for a bit. I did everything I could to get close to people in the industry," she added drily, "which was… not always innocent."

"But you've never told anyone about Karkaroff?"

She shook her head. "He didn't shape me. I could have died in this town, I could have been nothing, but I wasn't, and he doesn't deserve credit for what I turned out to be." She took another sip of wine, adding, "I refuse to let him be part of my origin story."

"I see." He picked up his fork, puncturing a mushroom. "I think you're right," he commented after a moment's contemplation. "Your story is much more interesting without him."

They didn't speak further, opting to continue eating in silence. Privately, though she knew she would never admit it, she felt she owed him something; for unsettling the knot in her chest, which had been enough to prevent her from eating only moments ago. It felt like a weight had been lifted.

Eventually Percy rose to his feet, attempting to clear the table, but Pansy stopped him. "I've got it, don't worry about it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He walked over to his bag, picking it up, and then paused. He looked down for a moment like he might open it.

Pansy, meanwhile, sidled purposefully up to him, pausing him with a cautionary glance. "Don't even think about it," she warned.

She thought she saw half a smile, or possibly something even smaller. He leaned towards her, a little sway as if he might whisper a joke in her ear, or brush his lips against her cheek.

"You'll have to sign them eventually, Miss Parkinson."

She forced herself not to shudder at the proximity of his voice. He'd said it so quietly that if there had been anyone else in the room, they wouldn't have heard it. Only she could, suffering it like a vibration in her chest.

"Make me," she said, letting out a breath.

His eyes slid over her face, down to her lips and back up.

"Have a nice evening," he said, and then turned away, opening the door and disappearing through it.

---

She spent the next day bracing for something. She watched the clock hit nine, ten, eleven. She looked at her phone constantly but opened none of the messages, ignored the calls. She itched with unknown agitation, like a muscle cramp. Her eyes had opened with a flutter, her chest tight, like she'd been dreaming something wonderful and had reason to believe it would continue upon waking. When she woke up, though, she couldn't remember what it was.

She got on her father's motorcycle and rode to Daphne's salon.

"Oh, wow," said Daphne, looking up at Pansy's entry. "I really didn't think you'd still be here."

"Yeah, neither did I," Pansy sighed, falling into the salon chair. "Got time for a walk-in?"

"Sure," Daphne said, stepping behind the chair and toying with Pansy's long hair. "I had a cancellation anyway."

"Rude," said Pansy.

"Nah," countered Daphne, shrugging. "I'll just charge you extra."

Pansy made a face at her in the mirror. Daphne smiled broadly.

"So," Daphne said. "Are we going to talk about how you skipped your dad's funeral? Or are we just going to catch up on about a decade of gossip," she amended on second thought, teasing, "Any new crushes to speak of?"

Oof. The irony.

"Very funny," said Pansy.

Fortunately Daphne was already distracted. "Are we doing a trim, or are we just chopping the whole thing off?"

"Chop it," said Pansy, and Daphne's hands stilled.

"What? Pans, I was kidding—"

"Cut it," Pansy said, meeting her eye in the mirror. "Lobs are in now, right?"

"But—"

"Daph," said Pansy firmly. "If anyone's going to cut my hair off, it should be you. You used to hold it back for me all the time in high school." She settled herself in the chair, reaching for a magazine. "You can sell it on Ebay, I won't be mad."

"Pans, honestly." Daphne smiled faintly. "I mean, you know I've always said you'd look great with short hair—"

"Yes, I know."

"—but that's a big change, and your hair's so healthy—"

"I'm not getting bangs, woman, just cut it," said Pansy. "If I miss my long hair, I'll get extensions. Or a wig."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Alright, fine. Sure you don't want to dye it purple while you're here?"

"Why, do you think that'd look good?"

"Okay, seriously. What's going on with you?" sighed Daphne.

"Nothing." Pansy shrugged while Daphne reached for an elastic band, gathering Pansy's hair into a ponytail. "Though, just curious," she ventured, watching as Daphne engaged some sort of hair wizardry via eye-balling, "do you know anything about Percy Weasley?"

"Mm, no, not really," Daphne absently replied, wrapping a hand around Pansy's ponytail. "He's on the planning commission, if you're interested in having something rezoned."

"Ah," said Pansy with an inward roll of her eyes, "Thanks. Helpful."

"No problem." Daphne rummaged around for scissors, pulling a clean pair out of a drawer. "Has he been giving you shit or something?"

"Yeah, he's my dad's estate lawyer."

"Oh, yeah, makes sense." Daphne paused, smoothing her hands over Pansy's ponytail, and said, "Hey, I know we don't really talk anymore, and I get it if you don't want to. But are you, like… okay?"

They locked eyes in the mirror, and it occurred to Pansy that she'd really done herself a disservice not staying in touch with Daphne after she left. She supposed Daphne had run away, too, and she'd never thought to ask what happened after that.

"Yeah, I'm good," said Pansy. "Thanks for asking."

In answer, Daphne cut off part of Pansy's ponytail and let it fall to the floor.

"Don't panic," she said, but Pansy didn't plan on it.

There was something reassuring about letting it all go.

---

Percy had no intention to contact her. There would have been something inhumane about it, in his view. He was primarily her father's attorney, and even in death there was a sense of responsibility to his client. That he may have felt something by virtue of standing so close to her rendered it an inopportune time to demand that she sign, read, or waive anything, and given everything she'd said to him at dinner, he doubted she would want to be around him unless his interest in her was purely clinical, fiduciary. In order for that to be the case, he would need a day or so to catch his breath.

That being said, he braced himself nearly every hour at the sound of a motorcycle revving on the street outside. He was forced to pause mid-thought each time, reminding himself silently that this was Death Eater country—not every motorcycle had an attractive brunette on it; realistically, 99% of them did not—and continuing to work. At around three in the afternoon, though, the blistering sound of an engine was followed by the echo of footsteps from the stairwell, then the door opening, then the door closing, and then the blur from his periphery that meant someone was standing expectantly in the threshold, paused between his waiting room and his office.

"Busy?" she asked, and he looked up.

She'd cut her hair short. It skated her clavicle now, making her look both tough and sleek. She was wearing black skinny jeans, heeled black ankle boots, that same oversized leather jacket, wine-colored lipstick. Terrifying and traumatically, upsettingly beautiful. Like she'd scare his mother half to death.

He glanced askance at the file with her name on it, then flicked his gaze back to her.

"No," she said.

"No?"

"No," she confirmed. "Not now."

"You came to my office to tell me that? An interesting method of refusal."

She walked inside, shutting the office door behind her.

"It occurred to me that a decent person might have said something to me after last night," she said. "But then," she reconciled offhandedly, tongue slipping out between her lips, "I remembered you're a lawyer."

He closed out of the contract he had on the screen and pulled up the mediation he was currently drafting between two downtown business owners. "Very original," he said. Not caustically, though he could have. Jokes at the expense of lawyers and thieves were a dime a dozen without him wasting any hostility on the subject.

"I told you some really personal things," Pansy reminded him flatly. "I think it would be to my detriment if I didn't ask you to sign a non-disclosure agreement."

He looked up, arching a brow. "You think I'll go running off to the tabloids to tell them about your perjurious attempt at jury infiltration?"

She pulled out the chair across from his desk, lowering herself into it.

"I'd like to prevent it," she said. "If at all possible."

She seemed completely serious. He wondered if it was haunting her now that she had been so honest with him the night before. For a woman who'd made her career trafficking as a poet with an ear for hooks, she seemed to dislike sensitivity. He had a feeling it was unwelcome in her past life. No Death Eater would ever stand for knowing someone had something to hold over them—least of all someone like him having something like that on someone like her.

As if she could read his thoughts, Pansy shrugged her father's leather cut from her shoulders, letting it fall around her waist where she sat in the chair.

"Tell you what," Percy said, leaning back to steeple his fingers against his mouth. "I'll sign an NDA if you go through your father's estate paperwork with me."

"No," she said. "I won't sign them at all without an NDA."

"And who's going to draft it? Me?"

"No. I have a standard copy."

"For record producers? People in the industry?"

"Them," she confirmed. "But also people I hire. People I give interviews to." She didn't blink before adding, "People I sleep with."

"And I fall into…?"

"You're your own category."

"How special for me," Percy murmured.

She gave him a thin, derisive smile.

"I came back here due to extenuating circumstances," she reminded him. "I could argue that you took advantage of that. My emotional distress."

"You could have had a career as a lawyer yourself, Miss Parkinson." She was a natural shark, and he'd seen a lot of them in law school. They were mostly litigators and defense attorneys now, though if he'd moved somewhere more prominent he might have come up against some of them in notable contract negotiations.

"One lawyer in the room is more than enough," she said.

Percy tapped his fingers on the desk, considering it.

"Do you have the NDA on hand?"

"I have an electronic copy. I can AirDrop it to you now."

"Do that," he advised.

She pulled out her phone and, as promised, the little bubbling sound of impending acceptance emanated from his computer speakers. He hit download, then print.

"One moment," he said.

He rose to his feet, stepping out of his office to the industrial printer that had been his one real investment aside from the office and the law degree itself. The contract was obviously standard; drawn up by a large Los Angeles-based firm. Everything, Percy judged with a glance, was on the up and up. Clearly she had gone through this song and dance before.

When he returned to his office she was standing beside the file cabinets that sat in an orderly line behind his desk, eyeing the nothing that occupied his walls.

"You don't have any personal items in here," she observed without turning around. Beneath the leather jacket was a thin, loose tank top. He could see the motion of her shoulders underneath it as she tested one of the drawers, attempting to pull it open. It was locked.

"Not even a stress ball," she said.

Percy approached his desk, setting the contract atop his keyboard. "What were you expecting? Wedding photos? Baby pictures? Sentimental tchotchkes?"

"Maybe." She turned to give him a hawkish, accusing glance. "Do you not have any of those?"

"No," he said. "I find sentiment largely wasteful."

"Charming," she said bitingly.

Her eyes flicked to the contract, then back to him.

Then she reached for a pen, bending over his desk to reach her portion of the agreement. She shuffled to the last page and wrote her name in print, then signed it. She scribbled in the date without asking him what day it was, which was… an oddly respectable thing.

"So she does know how to sign a contract," Percy mused aloud.

She held the pen out to him, wordless.

"This," he commented, "seems a very strange punishment. Perhaps I was giving you space?"

"This isn't punishment."

"Isn't it?" he countered, accepting the pen from her.

His fingers brushed hers; briefly, pointedly. She didn't shy away from the contact, nor even blink. She merely looked up at him, expectant.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I think it suits you."

"What does?"

"All of it. The hair," he said. "The litigiousness. The vengeance. The 'fuck-yous' and the 'motherfuckers' you're constantly saying or implying. The bike." He gestured out the window to where she must have parked it outside his office. "The explicit terror of being seen."

"You don't know me," she said accusingly.

"No, I don't. But you want me to," he said, and for once, she faltered. "That's why you told me all of that last night, and why you're punishing me now. Because I fucked up. Is that it?"

"I'm not punishing you."

"Right, yes, of course." He set the pen on the desk and took a step towards her, watching her breath catch in her chest. She didn't retreat, which he thought was vastly to her credit. He paused there, too-close, glancing down at her. "What do you really want from me?"

"Sign it." She pointed to the desk behind him without dropping her gaze from his. "The contract. Sign it."

"Ah, but getting people to sign things is so difficult these days," he lamented, pointedly referencing the file marked with her father's name. "The price for acquiescence is steep. The market value on legally binding signatures seems to only be increasing."

"You want me to acquiesce," she said with a scoff, "really?"

"Would you rather I ask you to beg?"

She blinked.

He, admittedly, wasn't entirely sure he meant it.

"If you're calling my bluff, Weasley, then call it," she said. "See if I back down."

Unless he was very much mistaken, her pulse had raced exquisitely.

He took another step and she matched it, retreating.

Another.

Another.

He secured her back against his file cabinets and paused, loosening his tie.

"Perhaps it's me you underestimate," he said.

He slid the tie from his collar, pulling it free. She watched his mouth, his throat. She made no secret of it, which was profound and inspiring and nearly enough to make him stop, because there was no way he was going to be able to do all the things he'd like to. There would be something troubling about it, problematic. Yesterday she had exposed her inner fractures to him, and there was something wrong about the fact that it was him—the man who was forcing her to confront one more, to peel back another glimpse of malformation each time they saw each other. She was showing him all her ugly pieces and it was only making her more beautiful to him, more desirable, drawing his attention to the subtle pebbling of her skin. She had walked into his office blemishless, synthetic perfection. The irony of his attraction now made him deferential and idly sick.

He reached behind her, finding one wrist, and slid his tie around it. When she said nothing, he reached for the other, looping it around the handle of the drawer behind her. She didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't protest. He slid it around a few more times, leaning forward to reach behind her back, tying a blindly constructed sailor's knot. Her lips brushed his throat, evidence of their parting left behind in spectral traces of warmth against his neck.

When he was finished he stayed there, still leaned against her, her hands bound behind the small of her back and her teeth gently scraping his jaw. She bit lightly at his chin, tilting her head up for his, and he closed his eyes a moment before looking down.

She knew what she was capable of when he met her eye. She knew what she could do from this position, hands or no hands. He took one look at her and thought, Fuck.

"Well?" she said. Taunting him.

His mouth twitched, accommodating the briefest flicker of a smile.

Then he drew his attention downward and flicked open the button of her jeans.

Her breath caught and he slid the zipper down, slowly. He stroked the black lace of her underwear and glanced up at her. "For me?"

"For me," she corrected him, her voice dry. "But you can see them."

He gave a curt, deferential nod. "If you'd like."

He eased his hands under the waistband of her jeans, marveling at the way they fit her while he peeled them away from her hips. He slid the material carefully over her backside, stroking his thumbs along bare skin, and then tugged them down to the midpoint of her thighs.

"Lovely," he said, stroking the lace of her thong. His thumb dragged down her clitoris, experimental. He fit his palm between her legs, incautiously doting. "Expensive?"

"Very." He could feel her keening against him, the slightest roll of her hips to encourage him. "Planning to stop there?"

"Not quite."

He dropped to one knee, gesturing with a hand, and she blinked with confusion before gingerly adjusting her footing, setting one boot in his waiting palm. He balanced her foot on his thigh and unzipped the side of one shoe to remove it, tossing it away, before beckoning for the other. She switched feet, struggling a little without her hands for balance, and he slid away the left boot, pausing to pair them meticulously beside each other, returning his attention to her jeans.

He tugged them gently from the cuffs, fastidiously unrolling each leg from her calf. By the time they pooled at her ankles he tapped the side of her right knee, inviting her again to lift her foot. She did, and he slid them away, followed by a tap to her left knee. Then he folded them neatly and draped them over the side of his chair, returning to stand at a distance of a foot from her, perhaps less.

She didn't drop her eyes from his when he nudged her heels apart, gently widening her stance. His hand found her clit again lazily, stroking without purpose.

"What exactly is your plan?" she asked him, only slightly panting.

"If I'm going to sign an NDA, I'm going to earn it."

"That's not how this works."

He paused his hand, tilting his head to watch her stifle a whimper in frustration.

"Tell me how this works, then," he said.

She glared at him. He opted to reach forward, smoothing the neckline of her gratuitously revealing tank top to observe the matching black bra, peeling back the lace. The stroke of a nipple left it hardened in the wake of his touch, a little bud of expectancy. He lowered his head and sucked it lightly, brushing it with his thumb when he pulled away.

Unless he was very much mistaken, she shivered viscerally. "Fuck me."

"Is that a request or a command?" he asked.

"This is not a negotiation."

"I wouldn't know," he said. "You don't technically negotiate with me."

"Come here." Her hips canted forward, brushing his. "Touch me."

"Please," he mouthed.

She scowled.

He smiled.

"Fine." She swallowed, then gritted out, "Please," sharpening the single word into a violent, insidious barb.

"Well, since you asked so nicely," he said.

He lowered to his knees again, smoothing his hands along her waist until they paused at her hips, framing them between his palms. He leaned forward and slid his lips along the outside of her underwear, breath intermingling with the lace. She exhaled, stepping towards him, and he eased her legs apart, sliding the material away.

"Pretty," he said.

"What is?"

"Your pussy," he said, and glanced up. "Or do you prefer cunt?"

He could see she'd had to stifle a moan.

"I'd prefer you stop talking," she panted.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

In fairness she glistened, jewel-toned and lush, and he was not remotely opposed to being a bit more expeditious with his progress. He slid his tongue against the slit of her cunt and listened to her ragged exhale, absorbing it like Beethoven, straddling the line of genius and madness and whatever lay between. He parted her thighs more gruffly, fitting his jaw between the curves of them, and she ground her hips against his mouth, gasping.

His office phone rang and he stopped, pulling away.

"Don't you dare," she snarled, tugging at the drawer handle in frustration.

He smiled politely, rose to his feet, and walked to his desk.

"Percy Weasley's office," he said into the phone.

Pansy gave him a look like she would strangle him with her bare hands.

"Percy, it's Mom," said Molly's voice. "Have you talked to Ronald? He's not answering his phone and I don't know if he and Padma are both coming or not because if that's the case I'm going to have to make more bean dip—"

"Mmhmm," said Percy, still eyeing the pop star who was currently tied to his file cabinet.

"—and anyway you know this is important, Charlie's hardly ever home and I've had enough on my plate trying to wrangle Fred and George as it is. They've swapped phones again I think, which I keep telling them is totally unprofessional but of course your father thinks it's positively hysterical—"

"Of course," said Percy, holding up a finger to Pansy for pause. She gave him an exquisite look of impending homicide.

"—speaking of your father, his back's acting up again, would you mind doing a few things around the house? If you could bring the bins in that would be wonderful, I'm just so busy in the kitchen I don't know if I'll get around to it and the neighbors actually complain, if you can believe that—"

"Not a problem," said Percy. He stretched the cord on his phone and stepped towards Pansy, reaching between her legs to slide a finger inside her, then another. She made a little sound of desperation, eagerly accommodating him while he fit his hand to the shape of her, thumb idly stroking her clit. "Anything else?"

"You're not bringing anyone, are you? I mean of course you aren't, but I just thought I'd ask, I didn't know Charlie was dating someone and I feel so uninformed, I mean is it really so much to ask that I be told who's coming around to the house? Not that I mind of course, the more the merrier and who knows if Ginny will come or not, she seems to have totally lost the ability to communicate—"

Pansy's lips parted, close to release, and he stopped, not wanting to be distracted when it happened.

"So sorry, I'm actually with a client right now," said Percy. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Oh right, yes of course, though did you hear from—"

He slammed the phone down and dropped to his knees again, maneuvering Pansy's leg hastily over his shoulder. She gasped, delirious with relief, while he dove his fingers into her, his mouth circling, darting, sucking, all restraint gone from the room with the exception of her wrists. When her legs shook, the cabinet behind her jerking slightly from her effort to stay upright, Percy looked up and watched her face wrench in perfect torment; agonizing, excruciating closeness.

He felt her clench around his fingers and watched her come, shoulders exhaustedly going limp after the tremors had left her body in waves.

"You asshole," she gritted through her teeth, breathing hard.

Percy rose to his feet without a word, reaching for her jeans. He repeated the same process of undressing her in reverse, gesturing for one foot, then the other, carefully drawing them up her legs and then fastening them around her waist. Then her shoes.

Then he paused, and she glared at him. "Untie me."

"Sign your father's papers," he said.

"Am I supposed to do that with my hands tied?"

"No. You're supposed to do it this evening, at—" He paused, turning to his desk, and scribbled on a post-it, folding it up and slipping it into her front pocket. "This address. Seven o'clock, and don't be late."

She glared at him. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly, I'm afraid. As for this," he said, reaching over to pluck the non-disclosure agreement from his desk, "I'm going to need a few hours to look over it. Standard procedure, you understand."

"You're serious." She was gaping at him now. "Are you going to leave me here?"

"Well, yes and no," he said. He leaned closer, skating his lips beside her cheek as he loosened the knot of his tie from her wrists. "This will only take a few more seconds to get out of, I think. Do you need me to tell you how to lock the office up behind you?"

He turned his head to glance at her furious face, his nose brushing the lobe of her ear.

"No," he murmured, "you're a smart girl. You'll be fine."

He gave her hips a light smack and gathered the rest of the papers from his desk, shoving them into his bag and striding out of his office without another glance. Either she'd make him pay for that, or…

Or nothing, he thought, satisfied, as he followed the familiar path to the stairwell, out to the sidewalk, her bike gleaming in the fading sun outside.

There was no chance she'd let him off the hook.

---

She wasn't exactly proud of the fact that the first thing she'd done when she'd freed her hands from his filing cabinet was to immediately dive her hands into her pants and relieve the renewed tension there herself, viciously shoving her fingers against the pulsing ache remaining. She came again, unprettily, holding her breath and sputtering out a gasp, and then contemplated whether or not it was worth it to murder him.

Or, as Theo had once suggested, to simply break his kneecaps.

Jesus, but his face. His hands. His mouth. The utter fucking carnality of him. The shamelessness of it all, of leaving her there, waltzing out without even expecting a hand on him in return. He hadn't even kissed her.

She shuddered at the thought of it, his mouth pressed to hers.

Jesus.

She went home and showered. She went for a run, then showered again. She came in the shower, then air-dried and went to lie on fresh sheets in her teenage bedroom, still naked. She'd lusted after supermodels before, musicians, actors, CEOs and industry professionals, and now she was contemplating trying to Prime Now a vibrator all because of a stuffy, unsettling small-town lawyer. He wasn't even the kind with money.

He was on the goddamn planning commission, for fuck's sake.

Her mind was filled with malevolence and barbarism. She was overcome with something; not the bile that had initially brought her here to seek out her father, her former life, her sense of control, but… something else.

Vulgarity. While he was going down on her she'd wanted to tug at the roots of his hair, to destroy him a little. Instead he'd taken a sip of her and walked away, perfectly sated.

She sat upright and shook herself.

This was unacceptable. She had come here to get away from the circus in L.A., to remember her roots, whose daughter she was—to recall that she was Pansy goddamn Parkinson, who did not and would not take no for an answer, ever. She had told her assistant a day or two, three tops. There was no purpose to this—to this agonizing over him, or whatever she was doing. Yes, she'd made a mistake telling him the truth about what brought her here, but that could be remedied. She could get the NDA signed, close the book on her father's death, and then be done with Diagon forever. It was what she'd wanted all those years ago, staring at this exact ceiling and wishing something miraculous would take her away.

All she had to do was leave. She'd done it once. She could do it again, and with finality this time. She and Daphne could email or FaceTime and everything else could stay buried; stay in her veins—in her blood and in her past—and that's it.

Fine. Fuck it. Fine.

She plucked out a pair of jeans, a white oversized button down. Business, or something like it. The tips of her newly cropped hair sliced at her collarbone and she reveled in it.

Time to go, Pans, her reflection said. You're too much for this place to hold.

Then she rifled the little scribble of an address out of her jeans and got on her father's bike, heading for wherever Percy Weasley was waiting.

---

By the time it was 7:38 he was fairly sure she wasn't coming, and secretly, he thought that was best. It was a risky game, whatever this was, and it was probably to his benefit if she refused to play it. He could always fax the papers to her. If she disappeared and never spoke to him again, so be it.

Then the doorbell rang.

"PERCE, CAN YOU GET THAT?" shouted his mother over the raucous sound of his twin brothers telling some story about a poltergeist. He hadn't been listening; his involvement in the conversation typically invited mockery of some kind, so it was easiest to simply stay silent. He might have taken any interruption whether it was her or not.

So he rose to his feet without protest, pulling open the front door.

She seemed to know immediately by the sounds emanating from the dining room that she'd been tricked, though to her credit she didn't immediately make a scene.

"What is this?"

The question was tight-lipped and exacting; the manifestation of don't waste my time.

"It's game night," Percy said, and she shuddered.

"Game night?"

"Yes."

"What, like Monopoly?"

"Yes, and life-sized Jenga."

"I hate games." She looked repulsed.

"PERCE, WHO IS IT?" yelled Molly.

"I also hate games," said Percy, pointedly not answering his mother.

"I thought we were signing papers."

"We are. Eventually."

She scowled at him.

"This is my nightmare," she said vitriolically.

"Mine too."

"Is your whole family here?"

"Most of them."

"Jesus." She looked like she was going to be sick. "No. Absolutely not."

"Okay," he agreed, "then get on your bike. Go home."

"I want this taken care of tonight."

"Okay, then stay."

She seemed to know she'd been outmaneuvered.

"You. Fucking. Asshole," she ground through her teeth.

"PERCY! IS IT THE MAIL? YOUR FATHER'S BEEN WAITING ALL DAY FOR A PACKAGE!"

"Shall I tell her you're here?" he prompted.

He hadn't really expected her to stay. He'd mostly thought she'd show up and be pissed and leave and he'd have the upper hand still, which was the only thing that felt safe at the moment. His proximity to her was beginning to unnerve him. He was starting to want things from her, and pushing her to her limits seemed to be the only plausible cure. Hate me more, push me away so there's distance, something like that. That seemed to be the gist of it.

But before either of them could say anything, Ron had materialized in the entryway, sidling up to Percy from the hall.

"Oi, Mom's asking—"

He broke off, staring. "Parkinson?"

Pansy rolled her eyes and shoved her helmet into Percy's chest. "Put that somewhere," she said, dismissive.

Percy shrugged, waving her inside, and moved to set the helmet on the entry table when Ron gave his arm a tug, keeping him back.

"Excuse me, an explanation, please?" Ron demanded in an ineffectual whisper. "When you left your car at that house I thought you said it was a—"

"Client," Percy confirmed. "A client. She is. I need her to sign something and she's being difficult."

"Oh, well, color me fuckin' shocked about that," grumbled Ron, but gratifyingly, he didn't push the issue. "Mom's going to completely lose her mind."

Secretly, Percy was counting on it. He hadn't noticed how little choice he'd had in the matter of his life until after Pansy Parkinson had walked into it. A seismic shock to Molly Weasley's system felt like exactly the thing he needed, or possibly just wanted. Maybe that was a little unnecessarily vengeful, which Pansy unquestionably was, and which Percy had never been.

Then again, maybe it wasn't worth continuing to be anything that Percy had ever been.

Not if whatever came next would be better.

---

Everyone had folded. A pile of quarters sat in the middle of the table for the taking.

"So? What do you have?" grumbled one of the twins Pansy vaguely remembered from high school. Unsurprisingly, their paths hadn't crossed much. She doubted they would cross again after he (they) had taken such catastrophic losses tonight.

"I don't have shit," said Pansy, laying down her handful of worthless cards and picking up her can of White Claw for emphasis. "Suck it."

There was a groan around the table as Pansy collected her prize, having successfully bluffed her way into the entire table's contents.

"You're banned," said Ron immediately, who seemed to suck slightly less than he had in high school. Whether that had to do with Pansy being famous now or him having forgotten most of what they'd been through after a decade of time away was irrelevant. "You can't come back here. We're putting your picture on the wall at the precinct. You're a thief."

"Thank you," said Pansy coolly, glancing at Percy. He was sitting beside her without much comment, a faintly amused expression on his face. He was one of the first to fold, purely out of disinterest. Unlike the others, he had no stake in the game.

He hadn't been very good at Pictionary. He was a disaster at the celebrity game. The only game he was good at, allegedly, was Trivial Pursuit—which is why, according to his siblings, they now refused to play it. He had also been too good at Scrabble, they said, which was why they had thrown it out ages ago.

They mocked his scribbled drawings and his inefficient charades and in response he hardly batted an eye. They shouted over him frequently. His mother fussed over his brothers—his sister, thankfully, wasn't there—and seemed to keep forgetting where he was, tripping over him like the errant corner of a bed frame. She had fawned over Pansy, of course, going so far as to blindly ignore the Death Eater logo on her father's cut, and Pansy saw the copies of People and US Weekly that meant Molly Weasley had some form of celebriphilia, which probably explained why Percy had known what had or hadn't been mentioned in Pansy's Vogue interview. There were pictures of the Weasley children all over the house, dominated by the oldest and the youngest. Wedding photos, baby pictures, vacation photos, all filled to the brim with freckles and red hair. Sentimental tchotchkes.

The only picture of Percy that Pansy could find was the one from his law school graduation. Percy was only half-smiling, caught off guard, while Arthur smiled broadly at the camera, beaming.

She didn't know why she was still there, truthfully. She'd already texted her assistant to book her a flight back to Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon and it was arranged, handled, done. This, game night or whatever, was a waste of time—particularly if it wasn't going to end with her getting her contract signed—but every time she thought about leaving, she knew that Percy wouldn't stop her, and it hurt a little. Stung.

Right about now, though, she finally realized something.

"You really do hate this," she murmured, and he looked up.

"Hm?"

He probably wasn't used to people observing him in this atmosphere, much less noticing him. She sighed, rising to her feet. "Alright gang, I gotta go," she announced, as the others offered muted groans of not particularly caring whether she stayed or went. "Percy, you needed me to look over something, right?"

He blinked up at her, but thankfully wasn't a complete idiot. "Yes. Right."

"Okay, great. Sorry to steal him away," she offered facetiously, half-dragging him out of his chair by his collar, "just want to get this taken care of—"

"Your winnings," said Padma, Ron's whatever-she-was, and Pansy glanced over her shoulder at the pile of quarters, fighting the urge to laugh. She'd made that much off of album sales in the last five minutes, probably.

"Keep it," she said. "I've got everything I need."

She turned and walked out, Percy following in her wake.

"You're in a hurry," he observed neutally.

"Yeah, well, you looked miserable," she muttered, picking up her helmet from the entry table and pulling open the door. "You coming?"

He arched a brow, pausing. "Where?"

"Wherever the fuck isn't here," she said, waving a hand outside.

He shrugged.

"Alright," he said.

He only faltered one more time, turning in the direction of his car before stopping again, noticing that Pansy had walked to her bike. "Are we…?"

"Get on, Weasley." She handed her helmet to him, and he shook his head.

"You have it. You're worth more." He slid onto the seat behind her, securing his arms around her waist. "Just don't kill me," he said in her ear.

She put the helmet on, giving him a glance like I don't know, we'll see how I feel.

"Fair enough," he said.

She didn't take the corners so tightly this time. She kept to the speed limit. Percy's arms around her waist tightened at times, evidence of apprehension he obviously didn't want to confess aloud.

"Hold on," she shouted over her shoulder, not because she was going to do anything dangerous, but because she suspected he needed to hear that it was okay to do it if he wanted to. If he was scared, she wouldn't judge him.

He circled his arms around her ribs and curved his entire chest around her back, snugly.

She wasn't totally aware where she was going until after she pulled into the Leaky Cauldron.

"No offense," she said over her shoulder, "but your mom's food isn't exactly edible."

"None taken," he said, dismounting first and holding out a hand for her.

It was a quiet night, even by Diagon standards. She slid into a booth on the left and he lowered himself into the opposite side. The menu hadn't changed.

"Umm, Greek salad, please? And a glass of wine. Any white will be fine."

She glanced up at Percy, who nodded. "I'll have a glass of whatever she's having, thanks."

The waitress, whom Pansy distantly remembered from high school but dismissed after a second's consideration, turned away, and Pansy directed her attention back to Percy.

"Got the NDA with you?"

"Yes." He reached for his bag and her hand shot out, pausing him.

"Look, it's fine," she said. "Just… don't tell anyone what I told you, okay?"

He looked up, locking eyes with her, and nodded.

"Okay," he said.

Their glasses of wine arrived. Nothing special.

"So listen," Percy said eventually, after they had each taken sips. "About your father—"

"Just tell me what to sign and I'll sign it," Pansy said, suddenly resigned. "I've got McLaggen putting the house on the market. Anything that comes from that can be used to settle his debts, and I can handle most of that remotely."

"Ah, excellent. Very practical." Percy dug the file out of his bag, sliding it across the table to her. "Ready?"

She glanced at it.

"You get it," she said uncertainly, "right? Why I couldn't…"

She trailed off.

"Yes," he said. "Finality can be excruciating."

She wondered what made him sound so assured of that.

He opened the file and slid a pen towards her. "Do you want to discuss anything?"

"Honestly, you've made it clear plenty of times. I read all your emails, I just—"

She stopped.

He folded his hands in his lap.

"If there's anything I can do to help," he said. He left the remainder of the sentence to linger between them, and she shook her head.

"No, I'll just… get it over with."

She plucked the pen from the table where he'd placed it, signing everywhere he'd indicated. He had been meticulous about it, and each time she found a new place to sign, he paused her, explaining what the form was. He had broken down her father's financials, the taxes and bills to be paid, everything that needed to be taken care of. He had taken care of her, generally, and it wasn't like she wasn't accustomed to being taken care of—she was a commodity, after all, with someone hired to handle every song she wrote and every outfit she wore—but there was something different about the way he did it. The way he listened when she spoke. His exorbitant patience.

She signed the final papers and listened to his final explanations and sat back numbly, realizing it was over. That her father was dead and buried and she had no reason to come back here now; no house she'd grown up in to hide when L.A. got too overwhelming. The weight was lifted, but freedom was its own strange sensation. A discomfiting tingling in her veins.

Her salad arrived.

"Wow," she said, pushing the papers back to him. So it had only taken five minutes, maybe ten at most. "That was some brutal procrastination on my part."

"Yes," he agreed, sliding the file back into his bag. "I'll get you copies of these in the morning."

"You can just shoot them over to my assistant," she said, before wincing. "I mean, not that… I just, you know, he handles all the logistics and paperwork and—"

"I understand."

Percy looked away, raising his glass to his lips and contemplating something out the window.

"What will you do next?" he asked her.

"Well, I'm going home tomorrow." She cleared her throat, waiting to see if he would react. He didn't. "Evidently," she continued, "I can't hire the Death Eaters as contract killers anymore, so I guess I'll just watch the Bagman trial from afar like everyone else."

"You're friends with one of the victims, aren't you?" he said. She'd been joking, but he wasn't. "The reason you were removed the jury?"

"Yes." She sipped her wine.

"I'm happy to offer legal counsel," said Percy. "I assume anyone involved has their own team of lawyers, but if you or anyone you know is ever in a bind—"

"Do you like it?" She looked up at him.

He turned to look at her. "Like what?"

"This. Your job."

"It has advantages and disadvantages, like any profession," he said.

"Oh wow, you hate it," she observed drily, plucking an olive with her fork.

"The work, no. The job, sometimes." He absently stroked the stem of his glass with the pad of a finger. "I confess to having bigger dreams. Or to having had them, at one point."

Finality, she realized in retrospect. So he had resigned himself to this.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said again, and he nodded. "What happened today in your office…" She trailed off, clearing her throat. "It could happen again, if you wanted. One more time."

"Are you propositioning me? I don't have a lawyer present." His smile quirked when he raised his glass to his lips, and she sighed.

"Look, I'm just saying we can fuck if you want," she said. "No strings. No contracts. No talk of dead fathers or shitty Hollywood producers. We can just have a night together and walk away."

"Tempting," he said.

He didn't elaborate, and she wondered if maybe she had insulted him. She pushed the salad around on her plate, suddenly no longer hungry.

"I hope you get it," she said, abandoning the effort and turning her attention to her wine instead. "That I wouldn't stay here. Even if…" Another pause. "Even if I had a reason. There's nothing in the world that could keep me here."

He fixed her with a purposeful glance. "No. Nor should there be."

"I built this life. I wanted a few days away and I got them, but I love what I built. And not just because I built it. I really do love it. Even the bad stuff."

He nodded. "As you should."

"This place is where I came from. It's not who I am. This," she added, with a lingering glance at her father's leather jacket. "It's not what I am."

She expected another nod, a brittle of course not. He was not very reactionary, and she could see why. His siblings must have poked and prodded for reactions all his life and he had learned to give them nothing.

But instead he rose to his feet, removing a few crisp bills from his wallet and tossing them on the table.

"Let's go," he said.

"What?" She stared at him, bemused. "But—"

"If you're hungry again later I'll cook for you. Let's go."

"Weasley, I'm—"

He palmed her helmet from where it sat in the booth, offering it to her, and then held out his hand expectantly for hers.

"Come on."

She had the sudden, gripping terror that she would follow him anywhere and hoped to god he didn't ask that from her, because she wasn't totally sure she could prevent herself from saying yes.

"Yeah, alright," she said, shoving aside the salad and snatching the helmet from him. "Give me that," she said, "I'm driving."

---

They didn't make it very far beyond her front door. Almost immediately he was pressing her against the wall and stripping her of her father's jacket simultaneously, pushing and pulling all at once. She tugged at his practical navy chinos, stroking her palm over his cock, and dug her thumbs into the bones of his hips. He tossed her aloft and carried her into the near-empty living room, setting her down at the edge of the couch.

She slid her hands under his sweater and he obliged her, pulling it one-handed over his head and tossing it aside. She looked at him and fucking ached, still not fully recovered from her afternoon spent at his mercy.

"Is that honestly what you look like?" left her mouth in a groan.

"I exercise," he muttered in reply, leaning over to kiss her neck. She pushed him away to pull her shirt over her head and he shifted to sit on the couch, beckoning her towards him. He sat her on his lap, his thighs straddling hers, the same way they'd been on her father's motorcycle.

Hers, she corrected herself internally. It was hers now.

Percy slid her arms up, reaching them behind his head and running his palms reverently over her body, molding his hands to the shape of her. One of them slid under her jeans and the other curled under her jaw, cupping it with one hand to lift her chin while he kissed her. She sighed quietly, girlishly, and he stroked her below her jeans.

"What am I allowed to say?" he asked in her ear.

She turned in his arms, straddling him on the couch.

"Say you want me," she said, lowering herself onto his lap.

"I want you."

She rewarded him with a long kiss, greedy and taxing. The shorn edges of her hair slid around them, her hands possessive around his jaw.

"Say you like the way I taste."

"I do."

"Say it."

He turned her face with one hand, sliding his tongue along her throat. "I like the way you taste," he said quietly, and she shuddered, her hips shifting rhythmically above his.

She got reckless, carried away. "Say if things were different you'd want me for yourself," she whispered.

He tugged at the roots of her hair with one hand, gruffly, and shifted to flip her onto her back. He slid one of her legs over his hip, positioning himself between her thighs.

"I want you for myself," he said.

She froze, staring at him, and he stared back.

"That's not what I told you to say."

"It's not what you wanted."

"Don't tell me what I want," she snapped. She wanted to push him away but couldn't quite manage it, instead resting one hand on his sternum.

He shook his head.

"You said if things were different," he said. "But they don't have to be different for that to be true."

"I told you, I'm not staying—"

"I'm not asking you to stay."

She was breathing hard, her hands still braced on his chest. "Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I've seen what my life looks like without you in it and there's not a lot there."

She held her breath, waiting.

"And listen, this isn't me saying you've got to be saddled with me if that's not what you want. If you want one night and that's it, then that's what you're getting. I've got no problem with that. But if even a piece of you wants more," he said, and then stopped.

He rested his forehead against hers, raggedly exhaling.

She bit her lip, closing her eyes. Silence pulsed between them, delicate.

"Fuck, I want you," he growled, suddenly coming to life again in her arms. "Pansy, just tell me—"

"Fuck me. Please."

It was a manic shuffle of clothes, limbs, the parting of her legs and the feeling of him filling her, and the sound of his groan in her ear, repression finally unleashed. The ache she had for him was almost vestigial, atavistic, like something she'd been missing for generations, for hundreds of thousands of years. Just sex, she told herself, just great fucking sex, but she clung to him and he made a legless, mindless mess of her, the two of them actively desecrating the living room she'd grown up in. She'd fucked boys in this house only to dismiss the memory of them like ghosts, fading to non-existence by comparison. Suddenly she wanted him in her bed in L.A., on holiday in Bali. She wanted to fuck him with his hand over her mouth while hiking somewhere in Muir Woods or in the bathroom of a club after performing. She wanted to fuck him on her birthday, on his birthday, whenever the hell that was. She wanted to take a call with her agent or her manager while slowly lowering herself onto his cock, both of them trying not to breathe too heavily into the phone.

If even a piece of you wants more—

"I want you," she said, her whole body wrung out and tense, muscles tight and sweat glistening on the skin between them. "I want you, I want you, I—"

Then, with a rupture of anguish, Pansy shattered and soared.

---

In the morning he woke alone in her twin bed, still naked. He sat up, glancing around slowly, and realized he had never asked what time her flight was. The clock beside the bed read 6:45 a.m., but she'd said she was a morning person. Who knew what that even meant in Los Angeles terms.

He slid his legs out from the sheets, resting both feet on the floor and preparing to rise when she suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"Coffee?"

The amount of relief he felt at the sight of her was devastating. It meant the next time she was gone—really and truly gone—it would hurt twice over. The loss would worsen tenfold before it ever started to fade.

"Sure." He slid over on the bed and she perched beside him atop the covers, handing him a cup. She was wearing a pair of underwear, a bralette. He remembered the feel of her under his tongue and thought he would become a morning person if it meant he could make use of this hour, or however many hours remained between now and her flight.

"Come with me," she said, coffee untouched.

He hoped he'd imagined it. Not that he'd ever had much of an imagination, but the thing in his chest had to be hope if it was real, and he thought he'd safely gotten rid of that a long time ago.

"You don't have to like, move there," she said quickly. "But… you know. Come for a trip or something. Stay the weekend, and if you want to keep staying, then stay. We could keep things quiet for a bit, see if it works for us. Honestly, if I didn't have to go back today I wouldn't, but I've got a meeting with a really talented songwriter tomorrow and I—"

"A weekend sounds good." He sipped his coffee, letting its warmth radiate comfortingly through his palm. "Want me to give you a few days? You can have your meeting without any distractions. I can always fly out to meet you next Friday."

She blinked, turning to look at him. "Really?"

Maybe she hadn't believed him when he said he wanted her. It wasn't that long a flight to try and tell her again.

"I haven't taken a vacation in about fifteen years," he said. "Plus I hear the tacos are good."

"They are," she said, turning to him with awe.

He wasn't sure what to say at that point, but then she suddenly removed the coffee from his hand and set it aside. She threw herself into him with such force that they were immediately tangled up again, wrapped up in each other's limbs like they'd been all night.

"I've got a feeling I want to see what you do next," Percy murmured in her ear, toying with the tips of her dark hair, and her resulting exhalation, the release of a lifetime's worth of apprehension, escaped into his shoulder. "Plus, given your sense of vengeance, I suspect it's inevitable that you'll need a lawyer at some point."

"Shut up." She kissed him brutally, ruthlessly. "It's in my blood."

He knew it was. He knew her type. She, like the father who raised her, was chaos unrelenting. She would need a ride or die, a never-blink kind of man. Someone unafraid and lawless.

Somehow he suspected he'd always been that brave without being given much of a chance to prove it. If this was his fate, he welcomed it.

"Guess I'll see you soon, then," he murmured to her cheek.

She rolled over him, securing him between her thighs like the motor of her Harley.

"My flight doesn't leave until three," she said, sliding pointedly out of her bralette.

---

a/n: Thanks for joining me here on my birthday! If you'd like to continue my personal celebration, THE ATLAS SIX will be available on my website and tumblr as of January 31. Thank you very much for reading, and to those of you who voted for the nottpott over this pairing, I think it likely you will see that quite soon. Perhaps Valentine's Day?